


brick walls

by lusterrdust



Series: in this city [1]
Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Jughead is smitten, New York City, One Shot, Sappy, What's new, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lusterrdust/pseuds/lusterrdust
Summary: "He’s found home; and not in the age-worn bricked walls surrounding him, but in someone." [bughead, future fic]





	

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd

 

> ▱◯♕
> 
> _“A house is made of wood and stone  
>  but only love can make a home.”_
> 
> ◯

When he was younger—even _before_ his parent’s separation—Jughead Jones would sometimes dream of buying a house.

A house where his neighbors wouldn’t blare trashy music at three in the morning. A house where you couldn’t witness its town’s unfavorable group commit illegal transactions in broad daylight while children ran through dilapidated sprinklers nearby, conditioned to view such repugnant behavior as normal.

No, as much as he excelled in epitomizing misanthropy, Jughead _wanted_ white picket fence. He wanted blue shutters and porch swings and okay, maybe not _literally_ —but what he _really_ wanted was the lifestyle it symbolized:

Stability. Family. Home.

He wanted a place where he wasn’t drowning with false comfort, all the while planning an exit strategy for when shit hit the fan. _Because it always did._

_But now…_

Perched on a built-in heater, foot dangling off his open window’s ledge, Jughead stares out into the city of New York, in a place that is none of the things he dreamed as a kid.

A stark contrast to the eerily silent Riverdale, lower Manhattan is still bustling with life in this witching hour and he watches the smoke from the cigarette between his fingers billow out into the chilled autumn air before taking another drag and tilting his head back against the chipped window sill he’s leaning against.

Despite the brash noise of the city below, Jughead feels lulled by it, as though it’s a melody in itself.

If you were to ask him five years ago if he thought he’d ever reach that idyllic fantasy of domesticity in a white picket fence type of house, he’d probably have snorted in your face, passed an ill-disguised self-deprecating joke and went on his not-so-merry way.

As it were, however, the fantasy of the American Dream becomes highly overrated in his recent realizations—repeated readings of _The Great Gatsby_ and _An American Tragedy_ can attest to that.

_However,_

If you were to also ask him five years ago if he thought he’d ever be living in a 300 sq. foot studio apartment while attending the highly selective NYU, he’d have skipped the faux humor and genuinely laughed outright to your face for thinking such a ludicrous thought.

Of course, life is a fickle bitch with an ironic sense of humor.

Because not only does he find himself exactly in this situation – going on his last year in a University while simultaneously working on his second novel ( _Post Mortem_ ) – Jughead has something even _better_ than white picket fence.

He’s found home; and not in the age-worn bricked walls surrounding him, but in _someone_.

And she’s just a few feet away from him, tangled in cobalt sheets of silk.

Betty Cooper.

Angling his head toward her, Jughead flicks excess ashes off his cigarette and is helpless to the dopey smile the sight of her pulls from him. If he were a poet, he’s sure his laptop would be filled with flowery, cringe-worthy sonnets of her.

Maybe of her eyes and how they resemble the deepest parts of the ocean with their cerulean glimmer. Or maybe of her lips and how they taste of the peppermint chapstick she continuously swipes over them throughout the day. Or maybe they’d be of her brilliance—of a mind that got her to transfer into _Columbia University_ of all places!

Yes, her mind—her brilliant, beautiful mind would require a hell of a lot more than fourteen lines to praise about.

But Jughead’s a novelist, and poems aren’t exactly his forte.

Truthfully, he’d much prefer to discover new aspects to her than write about what he already knows.

“Jug?” Betty’s sleep-laden voice pulls him from his thoughts and he’s captivated by the way she leans up onto her forearm, allowing the sheet over her shoulder to fall, revealing her left breast to him. Her hair is a tangled mess, the glitter from her earlier outing with Veronica sparkling with the moon and city’s glow while illuminating the tiny flecks of mascara missed in a hasty wash under her eyes.

Still, she’s a vision.

Jughead flicks the butt of his cigarette out into the open air before snapping the window shut and plopping onto their bed. His arm snakes around her bare waist as he pulls her to his chest, sighing in pure relaxation as she nuzzles against him while fidgeting to find a comfortable position.

"You’re moving too much."

"You're freezing." Betty retorts sleepily, tone hinted with just a bit of playful sternness. "And you smell like smoke."

"The perks of nicotine."

"Hm."

Her hair tickles his chin as she moves again, finally settling into a comfortable position. She smells like coconut and hairspray and he takes a deep inhale, breathing her in. His fingers, splayed across her back, draw patterns over her skin, effectively pulling a soft mewl from her as she not-so-discreetly arches in a tell-tale sign that she wants him to rub it.

Jughead complies, rubbing her back until she melts against him in appreciation. If their cat, a small orange tabby, wasn't purring by their heads, he's not sure he’d be surprised if they came from Betty herself.

Of course, said cat does not like being ignored for back rubs, and she paws at his already disheveled ebony locks.

"Your cat's a menace." he comments idly, moving his free hand over his head to pet the animal briefly.

"You're the menace around here." Betty quips, "Caramel's a sweetheart."

Another swipe at his head proves otherwise, but Jughead remains quiet. Closing his eyes, the sounds from outside pour through their closed window noisily, but he's not bothered in the least.

"Oh!"

Just as he's drifting off, Betty's voice pulls him back, and he opens his eyes to look at her curiously. Her head is lifted and turned up toward him as if she’s just recalled something.

"I set the alarm for early tomorrow. V said there's a place I _need_ to try for their brunch, somewhere in Little Italy—"

"Yeah," Jughead exhales sharply in a lazy chuckle, cutting her off. "she sent me a text earlier. Something along the lines of _'you'd better be a top-notch tour guide or I'll be revoking your boyfriend privileges'_."

If he wasn’t so used to Veronica’s consistent text messages regarding his girlfriend, he’d be annoyed, but he’s so used to it now, it’s almost endearing.

Almost.

Betty giggles against him and the sound makes his heart flutter.

He can't believe she's here with him now and not hundreds of thousands of miles away.

While long distance had been difficult when he moved up to New York in an overdue attempt at college, along with an incident two years prior where they'd tried to go their separate ways, Jughead _knows_ there’s only Betty for him. If it’s not her, he doesn’t want it.  

She’s the one for him, young love condescension's be damned. He knows it’s either Betty, or nothing—and he’s fine with that. He doesn’t try to analyze it. It just is. 

And Betty, through the hardship of their very short break-up, she’d passionately declared the same of him, unconsciously wrapping him tighter around her pink polished finger when she’d professed the desire to be with him always.

"You'd better show me a good time then, Forsythe." Betty teases coyly, lips stretched out in an amused smile.

Jughead's eyes narrow as his hand stops rubbing her back, only moving it to poke at her ticklish spot. She cries out and swats his hand away before he responds. "I'll have you know I’ve become quite the city dweller, Cooper. I’m practically a true New Yorker now.”

“Oh yeah?” Betty’s eyes crinkle in the corner as she fights the smile on her lips from spreading.

“Mhm. Yesterday a tourist asked me for directions and I had to yell them out in passing so I wouldn’t miss our meeting with the movers.” He proclaims with a smirk. “If her indignant expression was proof enough, I’d assume she thought I was just being an ass.”  

“Savvy and mistakenly rude.” Betty laughs lightly, “You’re a true local now, Juggie.”

The sight of Betty so at ease with him, in the wee hours of morning, flood him with warmth.

Jughead tilts her head and captures her lips in a heady kiss, feeling a rush of desire spike through him when her nipples harden over his chest. Her hand moves up to fist in his hair, promptly spooking Caramel as the cat bolts off the bed and onto the window sill.

When Betty pulls away, Jughead flutters his eyes open to witness the beautiful flush on her cheeks trail down to the valley of her breasts, outlining a perfect canvas he wants to paint over with his tongue. Her eyes glimmer with flirtation and he’s enamored—completely beguiled with the weapon that is her gaze.

“Maybe you can get a head start on showing me a good time now.” She teases, shrugging nonchalantly as her hair tumbles in blonde waves over her shoulder and onto his chest. “…If you want.”

Jughead pushes her onto her back and moves to hover over her body.

“Well,” he dips his head, kissing her softly, “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later, when the sky is still dark, but the sounds of their upstairs neighbor starting their day drift into their studio, Jughead basks in the soft sounds of Betty sleeping soundly beside him. He brushes the hair from her face and slowly pulls away from her, careful not to wake her as he brushes a thumb over her cheek and tightens the covers around her body.

He picks up Caramel’s sleeping form from the heater and puts her on his lap as he takes her spot, pushing the window out to open. Reaching forward, he grabs a smoke and his lighter from his strewn jacket and lights up before taking a deep drag.

Closing his eyes, he listens to the hustle and bustle below and above. The city is too alive, his neighbors too loud, their apartment too small—but Jughead can’t picture himself feeling more at peace inside four walls in his whole life.

He knows the saying, ‘ _home is where the heart is’,_ he’s heard it countless times before. He’s never really understood it—at least not until recently. Because looking over to the blonde in _their_ bed, in _their_ run-down studio, in _their_ crappy building, Jughead knows he’s found a home; his heart has found a home.

A forever home in the hands of Betty Cooper.


End file.
